Sal Telluris

Three worlds apart, we sailed on separate winds

on crafts we shaped in antithetic forms

and gathered different maybes, might-have-beens

to weather different squalls and different storms.

Our sailing taught us how to yearn and ache

although we long held silence in our eyes.

And while some fifteen years frothed in our wake

we followed separate stars in separate skies.

But then the deep jade sea curved ’round her heart

and flung our ragged rafts upon this beach:

and here we find ourselves, back at the start

where first we two had drifted out of reach.

Horizon wraps us in arms infinite:

I now know what I want—and this is it.

Cyril and Methodius

This is probably the coolest boquet I've ever seen. The large African flower in the center seems like it's from some sort of alien planet.

There's no way to predict what memory will make of us, of our choices, of our selves. All we have is now. All we have is each other. And it can be so impossibly painful to hold one's heart open--because the heart does what it does, and one can't control it, not even kind of. But nevertheless. I hope mine never closes.

BSoD

I had been ill ever since arriving in Honolulu.

First, I was overwhelmed with sadness and fatigue. I'd crossed an ocean to be here, leaving my best friend at home and my brand new boyfriend at the airport. I'd spent two staggered flights mostly awake--unusual, for my hypersomniac self--either outright sobbing or drinking free alcohol and staring out the window at the clouds, thick and tangible below like cotton batting, or maybe like bread dough crusty with way too much flour, or a rolling white forest creased with river valleys and deepening canyons that poured into abyssal blue reservoirs.

Then, I was overwhelmed by the noise. I had no idea how loud Honolulu was going to be. The noises of traffic rolling by our leaky apartment never ceased; motorcycles and souped-up engines and ear-destroying loud music blasting past at all times, tearing right through the windows we had to keep open in order to keep the apartment ventilated and a tolerable temperature. Construction noises buzzing and rumbling and shrieking into the sky. And sirens... so many sirens...

Mama took me out grocery shopping after I landed, and we took the bus to Don Quixote, and the sounds of the buses' air brakes pierced my core and rattled every one of my bones. She was talking to me, trying to draw me out of my pained silence, but her stream of words barely registered. I was doing everything I could to keep it together, to keep a neutral expression, to focus on finding groceries in the cacophony. This was not what I was expecting, and I did not prepare myself for it. I'm not sure I could have, even if I had tried.

The sensory overload instantly spiked my anxiety levels. I worried about everything. I was filled with the idea that this entire venture was a mistake. This venture, this journey, this plan I'd been making for a year, carefully crafting a vision for how I could achieve a healthy future: a mistake. It took me several days to realize that my racing heart, my shaking hands, were caused first by the noise, and that the racing thoughts and fears and worries and anxieties, the wondering if my friends back in Colorado had already forgotten me, were spurred by my physiological condition, rather than the other way around.

I shut down. I didn't expect it to be like this, and I completely shut down.

But that is not where my story ends.

i guess i was writing about depression a long time ago?

I was just reorganizing some files and I found a random snippet of something I wrote a long time ago (like at least ten years ago, if not longer).
It was supposed to be some grand speech from a ranger-type character. Instead I think it's a sad and kind of poignant look into something that I've struggled with as long as I can remember.
--

I can only describe it as a great emptiness, and when it seizes me I dare not move. I stay still, and tears roll down my face unbidden; my whole life up till then seems like nothing worth mention, and where I am going seems a long way off. It is as though there is nothing worth traveling toward, nothing I am to accomplish that has any merit, nothing I can do to chase the emptiness away. So I stand, or I sit, and I stare out into whatever environment that holds me, and the trees seem impossibly tall, or the grass impossibly green, or the mountains impossibly distant, until nothing before me is real anymore and my mind reels and I despair.

When it holds me that tightly, my breath catches, and my head throbs, and I lay down wherever I am and close my eyes and fall asleep, because there is nothing I can do but sleep. I have no motivation anymore. I have no objectives or goals or aims—so I sleep. When I wake, it is usually past, and I am free to be myself again… but I fear that someday I will fall asleep upon the snow and never wake, and it will take me. I would choose any death but that.